


Soul (fly free)

by Cloudnine101



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angels, Dark, Dreams, Fractured Fairy Tale, Insecurity, M/M, Magic, Monsters, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Across the table, the man smiles slightly, teeth bone-white. Dean swallows, tongue flicking out across his lips, pinned in place by blue eyes (running like brook-water, cool beneath his touch).'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul (fly free)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fourhorsemen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourhorsemen/gifts).



There is a house, in the middle of the forest - and in it, there's a knife, flipping between fingertips. Across the table, the man smiles slightly, teeth bone-white. Dean swallows, tongue flicking out across his lips, pinned in place by blue eyes (running like brook-water, cool beneath his touch). "Tell me everything you know."

(Hands, in place on his shoulders - soft words, sifting into each ear, grains of heady sand. He wants to believe them - wants to believe more than anything, more than anything, more than-)

"And what will you give me in return?"' The knife gleams in the light of the stars, falling through holes in the patchwork roof. Outside honeycomb walls, the trees lean closer, branches bending in the wide. (Fingers on skin, fingers on skin; an intricate collage, locking and winding.)

"Anything." A raven caws, fluttering by - it makes Dean jump, makes Dean startle. The man stares, impassive. (Blue, blue eyes, twirling and skittering, the heart of the moon.)

"I don't know where your brother is, hunter...but I know how you can find him." Dean leans forward, coat-sleeves staining immaculate wood (there's a candle on the table, surrounded by pooling wax; and it flickers between them, an impenetrable barrier - Dean is glad for it, somehow).

"How?" The man moves closer, too - and suddenly, there are no tables and chairs, and there is no cottage, and there is no candle - there is only darkness, and a river, running through an underground passage, only its sound audible - the creaking, straining sound of woodlands.

(And there are hot, sweet lips; running over his, repeating his name, giving it meaning - _Winchester_ , Winchester, Dean Winchester - and it hurts, but it's a good kind of pain, so different from the kind he's used to feeling, so he revels in it. Winchester, Winchester, _Dean_ -)

"You must capture an angel," the man replies, "and take its soul - and only then will you be able to replace Sam's." The blaze rises up, a guttering mess - Dean stands, chair flying out from under him, landing on cracked stones. Water moves beneath his boots. (The candle is dead.)

Clinging onto the ivory blade by the hilt, Dean wonders when it passed into his hands. The man stares up at him, wide-eyed, never glancing away from his face. "Take its soul? How?" (Dean holds the weapon a little tighter, feeling it rub against his side, beside pale bones.) The man breathes deeply, chest rising and falling. Dean watches, mesmerised.

"One kiss will suffice." The man turns away, towards the back bench - his hands play over jars and vials, as if drawn to their feeling. Dean makes his way over the table by touch, blinking in the dark - feathers line the way, suspended by candle-wax, dripping from silken treetops. He places an ungainly paw on the man's shoulder, loosely; the skin he touches is cold, cloth falling away like dreams.

"What kind of an angel would want to kiss me?" The knife rests in his palm, a flat stone, endlessly broken. (Blood drips from his skin, as words caress it.) He allows it to fall, clattering against the ground. (An apple crunches between his blackened fangs - the skin slides downwards, onto his chin, as the juice pools on the milk-white flesh of another.)

The creature's shoulders rise; and from them, passing beside Dean's darkened orbs, are the ghosts of wings.


End file.
